Memories of Bessarabia

I Witnessed One Pogrom I was eight years old in 1905 when the first revolution broke out in Russia. My brother Harry was involved in helping organize the young Jewish men in self-defense against the Russian mobs that were making pogroms against the Jewish population. I witnessed one pogrom that year. The peasants, the Russians, would get drunk and all they knew—or were told—was that the Jews killed Christ, so they would want to kill the Jews. They usually would pick a Friday night so they could look for houses with lit candles. Then they would know it was a Jewish house. Many young people volunteered to protect the village, so they would get injured too.

Luckily, where we were, we had the Dnestr River that divided us from another city that really belonged to Bessarabia. My father had a friend with whom he went to the Yeshiva, a ferry driver.

This man gave us refuge from the pogrom.

Later, when we left Russia, I remember the saddest part for my father was to say goodbye to his friend, the one who saved us from the pogrom. I can still see them hugging, the two men with their long beards and tears in their eyes.